


Yours

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Season/Series 04, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tonight's the night they talk. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/86316">Possession</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/86315">Respite</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours

Night falls. Beneath the streetlight, oil shines a dim rainbow against the pavement near the gas station. Dean watches it from across the street. It looks so benign just pooling there, but all it would take is a match and everything would go up in bright blossoms of flame. It worries him that he should be so easily sparked, too.

He's not going back to the room tonight. He told Sam so. Another fight, another stupid set of insults. It'll be okay by morning. Truth is, Dean isn't even thinking about Sam. This anger is directed inward.

Castiel came earlier today, Uriel beside him, both of them full of vague threats and promises. Uriel kept making murderous eyes at Sam. Castiel held him back with words alone. A man twice his size, but Uriel was obviously in his thrall. Sam remarked on the discrepancy, but it didn't surprise Dean in the least. He knows what power lies there.

At the end of it, Castiel had reminded Dean of his task. "The world needs you," he said. "We need you."

And despite himself, Dean had snapped at him. "That's not what I want to hear."

He's still berating himself for his moment of weakness. Sam had given him a strange look. Castiel's eyes had narrowed. He might as well have come out and said it. Maybe even now Sam knows. Maybe he suspects. Maybe he's out there in the dark, watching. Dean's mad at himself for his slip, but he's also mad at himself for not much caring. His body is saturated with need.

And at the same time, his mind is racing with terror. He knows tonight is the night they'll talk, but what will he say? What will Castiel say? How on earth can they possibly make sense of the destructive, burning force that's brought them together time and again?

He keeps looking around, expecting to see Castiel there. Castiel keeps not being there. Oh, God, what if he doesn't show up? Is Dean going to keep standing there, waiting for him like a simpering high school girl on a first date?

He sighs and twists backward to look one more time. No one. He untwists, straightening his back, and meets blue eyes.

Dean inhales sharply. He can already smell Castiel, the dark musky smell of nighttime and forbidden things. He wants to reach in, pull Castiel against him, trail his fingertips down the line of the long coat. Brush it away. Take hold of Castiel's solid hip. The want is mutual. But they've promised they'll talk.

"Dean," Castiel says.

Okay, that's talking.

Dean seizes him, brings the parted pink lips to his with savagery born in equal measures of lust and confusion. Castiel's mouth slides open. Their tongues stab and slide against each other. Dean whimpers into the kiss. Their hands are everywhere all at once.

A break off, a breath of air.

"We should talk."

Damn it, Castiel doesn't seem winded at all. Dean can hardly breathe, and Cas is perfectly calm.

"I'm serious when I say the world needs you, Dean."

Dean gulps in air and can't let it out. He's not going to do this, is he?

"I know it's not what you want to hear, but it's the truth."

"And you?" Dean, manages. God, he needs to touch him like he needs oxygen (which he does right now, in mass quantities). "What do you need?"

Castiel takes in a breath. He looks blindsided by the question. Dean has thrown him off guard. Damn, but that's nice to pull off once in a while.

"You're my charge," he says adamantly. "Your fate is--"

"Screw fate." Dean grabs him by both shoulders. "Jesus, Cas. Just screw all that and tell me what the hell is going on between us."

Castiel's eyes darken. He tucks a hand under the curve of Dean's ass, cleaving them together in a hot rush of bodies. Dean moans at the unexpected contact and ruts forward against Castiel's hips automatically. "Tell me," he says.

Castiel grimaces. "You tell me," he says.

Dean's undone. The hardness in Castiel's tone turns him to jelly. "I want you," he confesses, the words tumbling out easy as small talk, easy as the demands that until a minute ago he was determined to stick to. All Castiel needed to do was ask him. Dean's been turned inside-out in one instant, and now he's helpless. "I want you so bad I can't think. Can't breathe."

Castiel regards him for a moment, eyes bright and curious. There's something rising up through his chest, making him stand up straighter. Dean feels small and shadowed. But Castiel's hand trails across Dean's jawline with tenderness, and his voice is a husky whisper. "You want me?" he says, and then a second time. "You want me." The first is discovery; the second is ownership.

Dean closes his eyes and raises his hand to rest fingertips on Castiel's knuckles. He molds the rough hands to his face. His lower lip is curled, and he trembles.

"You're my--" Castiel starts.

"Yeah," Dean interrupts. "Yeah, I'm yours."

He's praying and holding his breath, and he thinks he's going to shake apart like an old junk car rattling its way to loose wheels and dead, dented doors. He'll never survive the scrutiny in Castiel's gaze. He'll break down and crumble to pieces first.

"Please," he says. "Please, Cas. Don't... don't leave me hanging like this."

This is the power of Castiel. In front of him, Dean Winchester says _please_ without thinking.

Castiel blinks, and the world blinks too, disappearing and reappearing behind him. They're alone now, not in the street but in a room, a ratty hotel room since that's what Dean's used to. His idea of home is curtains, a minibar and a double bed, so Castiel has taken him home. Dean drags fingertips along Cas' chest and molds his body up against the angel's and whispers into his lips, "Please, please, Cas."

"Please what? Say it."

Dean moans, a brief, quavering note. His lip trembles. "I want to be yours. I want..." He thrusts anxious hips against Castiel's, grinds the hardness of his cock into the warmth he finds there. He's hard there and soft to melting everywhere else.

"Get on the bed." Castiel's a merciful master. He interrupts Dean because speaking more would destroy him.

Dean scrambles. He tries to pull Castiel down with him, but Castiel shakes him off. Dean's body arches forward uselessly. "What else?"

"Take off your clothes. Slowly," he adds when Dean's arms move blindingly fast. His eyes are uncompromising. He devours each movement, sucks in the sight of Dean's stomach flat and exposed, the appearance of the scar on his shoulder, the sign of his ownership. Dean reaches across his chest to caress it. His eyes bore into Castiel's. They both know what that touch, that gaze means.

Dean's naked, panting. He looks up at Castiel with the big eyes of a hound. "Now what?" His voice is bare and raspy.

Castiel hasn't moved an inch, but he looks that much more disheveled, that much less serene with naked Dean before his eyes. His breathing is shallow. Fingers fan against the clutch of his tie against his collar. He whips it off and beckons Dean with the curl of a finger. "You do the rest."

Dean moves too fast, and Castiel catches him. "Slowly," he adds. His hands burn into the flesh of Dean's arms. Hot. Demanding.

He brings Dean in close enough to kiss, then drops his hands and waits.

Dean's fingers are trembling too hard. He can't control their shake. "I can't," he says, but he has to. He just has to. He fixes his gaze on the collar of Castiel's shirt. One bit at a time. One button at a time. He won't burn up. It will be all right.

It doesn't even matter if he does burn up, puffs away like smoke at this point. He could die happy here, Castiel's. Knowing he is needed.

His hands slip around the fabric and touch skin. Burning. He winces but keeps going.

One button, two buttons, the triangle patch of flesh beneath almost babylike in its softness. White, like it hasn't been exposed to the sun in years. Dean surges forward and presses his lips to it. Sucks on the skin, trying to persuade a flush of blood to color it. Castiel gasps above him, but doesn't tell him to stop. Dean goes on.

Three buttons, four, and now his hands are working fast, too fast, because Castiel puts a hand on his and stops his movements. Dean looks up. "Slowly," Castiel repeats, his brows pulled tight together. Dean counts to five, then moves again. Undoes the next button and slides his hand in to open up the shirt along the beat of another count of five. Slowly. Slowly.

Castiel's lips dot his forehead, then hold there. He's being kissed, ardently. Almost lovingly. Dean doesn't dare look up to try to confirm the sensation. He doesn't want to be disappointed. Doesn't want anything to break this spell.

Five buttons. Six, seven, the shirt goes flying, Castiel's hands hit his shoulders and push him down. Dean pulls out his belt with a crack of leather and undoes the button and zipper with an eager almost-smile on his face. This part's familiar. He did this before, once, on his knees in a motel alleyway, and Castiel used him, took everything Dean had to offer and left again. With a promise that this night would come. A promise that they would talk.

Dean's talked. Dean babbled, like a stupid kid. Castiel has barely said a word. Dean was okay with it, but he's starting not to be. He's starting to need, he's starting to want to look up and see what's in those eyes. To ask questions.

Luckily enough, Castiel's erection is hot and flushed in front of his eyes, and Dean knows exactly how to fill up the empty hole that all the questions leave.

His mouth is fast, hot, sloppy on Castiel's cock, but it's worth it for the groan that sounds above him. He stretches his jaw until he can't move. His lips brush against a rough tumble of hair, and he struggles not to gag on the tickle against the back of his throat. It's what he wants. He wants Castiel's cock to tear him apart, starting with his face, but he wants it elsewhere too. Just wants Castiel to fuck him into pieces. He doesn't want to be Dean anymore. He wants to be Castiel's property, the angel's pet man. To take away all of the choices and all of the decisions and just be a doll. There to give pleasure and to take abuse and never to think any more of what has been or what's to come.

Castiel pushes him away with a lunge and a grunt. "Up," he says, and his voice is almost gentle.

That scares the shit out of Dean. Dean doesn't want him to be gentle. Dean wants Castiel to smite his ass. Anything else scares him. What scares him most is that Castiel raised him in the first place.

He gets up and he looks Cas right in the eye. Dares those eyes to be anything but hard.

"You're going to fuck me, right, Cas?" he demands.

Castiel swallows again. Damn it, Dean doesn't like when he does that.

"Cas. Tell me what you want. Tell me you need it. I've told you. Come on. It's only fair."

It's more than Dean says, usually, and understanding finally dawns in Castiel's eyes. He puts his hands on Dean's naked shoulders and opens his mouth to say something that could be a disaster.

"I'm not doing this because it's fair."

And Dean's twisted around, thrown onto the bed, and Castiel's on top of him all at once, lips at his ear, cock hard against Dean's ass, knees holding Dean's legs together, a bridge of steel and muscle weighing Dean down. Dean gives a delirious moan. He struggles, his cock sliding against rough cotton comforter, hard to aching. A swear erupts from his throat.

Castiel's hands are inexplicably slick -- angel mojo, Dean thinks weakly -- and they waste no time. As he probes, opens, turns Dean to jelly inside and out, Dean turns his head on the bed to catch a glimpse of the immutable, beautiful face. "Then why--" His thought is broken by a twinge of sensation. He gasps and starts again. "Why are you doing it, then?"

The motion stops. Castiel looks at him gravely. "Because you're mine," he says.

Dean swears to a thousand gods.

Then Castiel's cock is sliding into him with remarkable ease, and Dean's eyes roll back into his head. He groans. He's coming apart at the seams, now, just like he dreamed of, and Castiel's body is brutal atop his, slamming in with fullness that shatters him and pulling out to leave him empty and gasping. He makes noises like a child, greedy and gluttonous, and does his best to shove his pelvis up into Castiel's, prolonging the contact and the penetration of each harsh stroke. He needs to be touched, he needs Castiel's hand to wrap around him, but he has no leverage. He can't even get up to his knees. He wails in frustration bordering on ecstasy.

Castiel's body is like a piston, and Dean can feel each ripple of taut muscle, each swell of chest and thigh pressed into him. He wants to call out, but his voice is crushed between Castiel's weight and the bed. He makes a choked sound and thrusts his hips forward against the sheets obsessively. Friction, he needs friction, and it isn't there, and god damn it Castiel's killing him he's so big inside him. It's what he wants, but it's unbearable. Dean doesn't know how he'll survive the contradiction. The world might blow apart.

A tug at his hips brings him up to all fours, and then there is mercy in Heaven and Earth because Cas's hand wraps around him. Doesn't tug, doesn't stroke, just wraps, a tunnel of hot flesh for Dean to thrust into helplessly. His body moves in fast jerks. Forward through the ring of Castiel's fingers, back to be filled and split and owned more fully. He gasps and sputters. His voice and his breath are out of his control.

"Dean." The voice behind him has all the intensity he's become used to, and more. Castiel's breath is short, and he's groaning aloud now. Dean's inspiring this, he's the one who's provoked this burst of lust. If he can make an angel want him, then maybe, maybe the world isn't lost. Maybe he isn't the monster he thinks he's become.

He hisses out Cas' name. "I need you," he says, fervently, trembling. "I'm yours."

There's a moment when Cas stops moving altogether.

Cold, starving, Dean stiffens. His muscles clench against the invasion. He's done something wrong, he's ruined it all. It's all over. Cas slides out of him with a grunt and Dean wants to curl up in the sheets and die.

A rush of motion then-- Cas' hand on his shoulder, a tug, a push-- and suddenly he's facing the other way, looking up into earnest eyes. Breaths crest against his mouth. Lips are trembling and eyes are wavering before him.

Dean's terrified. He grips Castiel by the shoulder, the biggest demand he's ever made of him in that touch. "What?" he says. "What's wrong? What did I do?"

Castiel knocks him back to lie on the bed. He crawls over Dean's frame and settles his weight down. His cock is right there again. Dean needs him like he needs air, like he needs sunlight and redemption. His hand squeezes the firm knob of Castiel's shoulder. His voice is a begging whisper. "What?"

"I need..." Castiel begins, his eyes round. "I need," he says again. That's all he can say.

Dean wants to be horrified. He wants to be turned off. This has never been about Cas needing anything. It's been punishment, a trial of fire, pure and simple. The idea that Cas has any needs at all, that he's weak, should ruin the whole illusion.

But it doesn't. For an incoherent instant, they're equals. And joy inexplicably soars through Dean's heart.

"Take," he says, running his hand up Castiel's neck to his jaw. "Take what you need."

"Dean," Castiel says.

The name hangs on his lips so enticingly that Dean can't help but reach up to claim it.

Castiel goes limp into the kiss, gathering Dean in his arms and trailing possessive hands along his chin. He enters Dean again, and a rush of relaxation and sensation arches Dean's back and pulls a muffled sound through his kiss-swollen mouth. His whole body is Castiel's now, his weight and his strength all there only for him. It's delirious, it's joyful, it's intense in a way that Dean had forgotten good feelings could be. He thought only pain could provide that sharp a sense of relief. Not true. Pleasure is parting the skies and pouring down on him.

Not just pleasure. Connection.

"Yours, Cas," he mumbles. Cas' head is buried in his neck, breathing shallowly as he jams his hips down onto Dean's in a frenzied rhythm. "I'm all yours."

He sucks in Cas' breath, devours his kisses. Cas' stomach grinds intense friction against his aching cock. They come together to the peak, clasping bodies and lips and hands as they ascend.

Somewhere on the way back down, Cas whispers the words in his ear. Dean nods his head, presses kisses to Cas' hair. He already knows.

For the first time, Castiel stays afterward. They lie on the bed, panting and exhausted, and look at each other in amazement. Dean chuckles, embarrassed. "Places I never thought I'd be, exhibit A," he says.

Castiel doesn't need to make conversation. He probably doesn't even need to be there. The fact that he's sticking around is a huge mystery.

"So what does that make us, then?" Dean asks, hating his big stupid mouth for flapping but unable to really muster up any serious discontent.

"It doesn't make us anything," Castiel says. His voice is missing that dark edge, the warning that says he'll hear no argument. But Dean doesn't want to argue. He suspects Castiel may have seriously broken him now. He can't even take advantage of an opportunity to gain the upper hand.

How weird that Cas can win even by not fighting.

"Badass," he says, gazing at Cas with a grin on his face. Cas doesn't answer. He just closes his eyes and lies back, calming his breathing.

But his hand takes Dean's, holds it in silent solidarity. Chuckling, Dean settles down next to him. When he closes his eyes, he can still hear Castiel's whisper falling through space.

_I've always been yours._


End file.
